


Who Lives, Who Dies

by Nopride4531



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major spoilers for the Railroad questline/Deacon's backstory/the end of the game, This isn't really a romantic fic, like at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-11 20:20:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7906225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after the quest, the Nuclear Option.  Deacon and the Professor have a conversation about what keeps them going when life in the Commonwealth slams them to rock bottom.  Deacon understands more than the Professor gives him credit for.  Can be read as Deacon/f!Sole Survivor or just friendship. Namless Sole Survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Lives, Who Dies

She could feel it when it happened, the moment the Institute went up, the moment the Commonwealth had one less problem to worry about—and the moment her baby boy stopped breathing.  The heat—the radiation—was nothing compared to the fire in her chest, the undeniable instinct, a mother's intuition, really, that her child had been taken from her once more—permanently.  Watching the Institute first expand, then collapse like a lung... well, it did something to her, something not quite wrong, something not quite right.  Equilibrium: when two objects are in the same state.  Desensitized, when you feel numb, like the sensation before pins and needles.  

She barely remembered leaving the detonation site, barely remembered walking away from the view of the smoldering crater that was the Institute.  Even then, reminders of what she'd done confronted her.  Opposite the crater lay the still smoking remeains of the Prydwen, glowing a deep, dark red, like the color of a cloudy sunset..  She'd stopped and stared it it for a while, wondering how many lives were lost that day, how many were truly evil and the rest innocent.  When Desdemona had given the order to destroy the Brotherhood, the Professor hadn't even flinched, so caught up in the pain of losing Glory that any sort of retaliation sounded just shy of perfect.  But after it was done?  After the Prydwen crashed to the ground, killing nearly everyone on board?  Well, doubt was too weak of a word to describe what she felt.

The trip back to the Old North Church after the end of the Institute was mostly silent—and a blur.  She knew that Deacon and Desdemona went with her and had a few dim memories of a couple of scuffles with raiders, but aside from that, nothing really registered.  As soon as they got back to HQ and the Professor saw the boy—Shaun—standing there, she burst into tears, wrapping him in her arms and holding him tight.  She felt little relief from the pain, but the comfort it _did_  provide helped to slightly reassure her. 

Any sort of happiness she felt then was crushed a day later, when she found out about Liam.  His letter—his goddamned _suicide_  letter—shattered her already broken heart and erased nearly all feelings of victory at beating the Institute.  Somewhere deep in her mind, she knew that his death wasn't _truly_  her fault, was really just hard-to-deal-with collateral damage, but the knowledge was buried so far beneath layers of pain and guilt that it hardly mattered.  Liam had been so _young,_  so helpful and eager to please that the Professor forgot that he was an adult that could make his own decisions... and who deserved better—far better—than what he got.  She left hubflowers at his grave every week for three months after he passed, but stopped when the reality, the futility, of it all hit her.  Liam Binet was dead.  He either didn't know that she grieved for him, or didn't care, and had even said himself that he hoped she'd burn in hell.  All the Professor could do was hope that she wouldn't see him there.  

And so she dove into her work to water down the fire in her chest.  Desdemona, Carrington, and PAM had plenty for her to do, for which the Professor was grateful.  She rescued more synths that had been captured by raiders, found and secured DIA caches, and took care of raiders that had nothing better to do than prey upon innocents.  She ventured out alone— _always_  alone—for these missions, politely, yet firmly declining anyone's request to accompany her.  It was easier that way.  She focused better, had more time to think—and run from her grief.

Today was a rest day, though it hadn't been determined one by her.  She'd gotten fairly injured while rescuing her sixth or seventh synth from supermutants and Carrington had ordered her to stay in HQ at least until tomorrow.  So that was why she found herself lying on a mattress, absently staring up at the ceiling, almost as if she was trying to see into the heart of the church.  HQ was sparsely occupied at the moment, most of the agents out running supply missions or saving synths.  The Professor envied them.  Resting on a filthy mattress in a musty crypt made her antsy.  On top of that, the lack of work opened her mind up to feel the grief—and she didn't want that.  Grief led to weakness, which led to lapses in judgement and ultimately death.

As she continued to watch the ceiling, she heard the unmistakable sound of unoiled hinges squeaking, which meant that someone had undoubtedly opened the door to HQ.  The Professor tensed out of habit, then relaxed when she saw that Deacon was the culprit.  For a stealth expert, he sure could be loud sometimes, but she knew that he was only quiet when danger ran about.  She supposed then that the noise was a good thing, meant that everyone was relatively safe.  Well, if _anyone_  could ever be 'safe' in the Commonwealth.

It took no time at all for Deacon to see her and when he did, a wide grin spread across his face.  He practically bounced over to her, reminding her of a tiger in an old pre-war book, and immediately began to gush about the latest op.

"—And you should've seen it, Prof!  I took a shot from my rifle— _bam!_   And hit that sonuvabitch right between the eyes! Aw man, it was awesome! It—" He finally noticed that she wasn't responding.  "Hey, are you even listening?"

The Professor nodded.  "Yeah.  Rifle, bang, between the eyes.  That's cool, Deacon."

"Well, you don't sound too excited about it," he said with a frown.  "Something on your mind?"

She laughed, but the sound came out dry.  "I'm fine."

His expression was unreadable due to his sunglasses, but the Professor knew him well enough that she could tell he didn't believe her—not for a second.  For a moment, the look on his face turned angry—almost menacing—but it was quickly replaced by a blank mask that she misliked more than the fury.  At least she could read _something_  in fury.

" _What_ , Deacon?" She eventually demanded, sitting up so that she could look at him on an almost even level.  "Why're you staring at me like that?"

He was silent for a few seconds, but then abruptly (yet gently) reached out and grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet.  "Come on, Prof," he insisted, lightly but urgently tugging her toward the crypts.  "You and I need to talk."

It was pointless to try to refuse; once Deacon got that stubborn, 'this-needs-to-happen' look on his face, nothing could change his mind.  And so the Professor allowed him to lead her through the crypts, her sprained ankle slowing their pace to a near crawl.  He kept his hand on her arm the entire time, supporting her in case she fell, and navigated around the worst cracks and piles of debris.  When they couldn't be avoided, he helped her step over them, even going so far as to lift her above a heap of bricks.  The Professor raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.  Normally, Deacon didn't go through so much trouble.  

Their destination was the steeple of the church.  Climbing the stairs in her injured state was a nightmare, but she managed just fine, albeit slowly.  Outside, the night air was crisp and fresh with the first real chill of winter.  The Professor almost wished for a jacket, but then realized that if she could deal with being cryogenically frozen, then any day after that was warm.  Deacon didn't seem to mind the cold either, though, by all rights, he should've due to his thin t-shirt.  And yet nevertheless, despite his frosty breath and goosebumps on his arms, he sat down in the tiny bell-tower, one leg pulled against his chest, the other extended out in front of him.  There was just enough room for the Professor to sit as well, so she did, mirroring his posture.

For a while, neither of them spoke, the only sound being that of their labored breaths and wind, but then she questioned: "Why'd you bring me here, Deacon?"

He took his time answering, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and pointledly offering one to her.  She took it gratefully while he grabbed one for himself and then struck a match, lighting it before hers.  They each breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, reveling in the quiet before Deacon spoke up.

"Y'know," he began slowly, staring at the glowing cigarette between his fingers, "this is my first smoke in about... ten years or so."

The Professor rolled her eyes.  "You're avoiding my question."

He nodded.  "I know."

More silence ran between them until she couldn't take it any longer.  "Well?  Are you gonna tell me?" She demanded, flicking the ashes of her cigarette into an ashtray that just so happened to be sitting between them.  "Because I'm just gonna go if you're just here to waste my time."

His expression turned exasperated.   _"That,"_  he finally revealed, his brow heavily furrowed. _"That's_  why I brought you up here."

The Professor frowned.  "What are you—"

"Oh don't give me that shit," he interrupted, taking another drag on his cigarette.  "You know damn well what I'm talking about, Prof."

"I don't," she scoffed, but the quick aversion of her eyes gave her away.

"Takes a liar to know a liar, my friend, and right now?  We're both guilty." He waited for a moment, as if daring her to argue, before continuing: "Ever since the assault on the Institute, you haven't been the same."

She narrowed her eyes, hating that she _knew_  he was right, and bit her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood.  "How so?" She asked, deciding to play dumb, even though it was futile.  

Deacon sighed, exhaling smoke in a heavy plume.  "You're... you're just _different_.  I mean... it's almost like your dead, like nothing gets through to you anymore.  You..." He swallowed.  "You used to smile."

It was the last revelation that made all of the fight flee from her like wounded radstags.  In the seconds that followed, her shoulders slumped and unwanted tears blurred her vision, threatening to spill over unless she did something about them.  Reaching up with a trembling hand, she wiped her eyes, effectively erasing the water, and willed them to stay dry.  She was good at hiding tears; she'd learned quickly that in the Commonwealth, tears weren't accepted, weren't allowed.  And so she put on her mask once more, shields up and ready to defend.  

But she should've known: _nothing_  slipped by Deacon. 

"I..." she tried, hating the way her voice wavered, and cleared her throat in an attempt to sound steady.  "I lost my son, Deacon."

"I know."

Two words, but they offered more comfort than anyone else had ever given her.  There was something else in his voice as well, something that she couldn't quite place, but sounded a _lot_  like—empathy?  But that wasn't possible.

"Do you?" The Professor found herself snapping, losing what previous little control she'd managed to maintain.  "Shaun... he was the leader of the fucking _Institute,_  for God's sake!  I..." She lowered her head.  "I lost him the moment Kellogg took him. Shoulda known that I'd never get him back."

"You found him again, though." Deacon's tone wasn't matter-of-fact nor cold, but regretful.  "That's more than most people can say."

The Professor shook her head.  "No.  I didn't find him again... I found someone completely different.  I found _Father_."  At his silence, she continued: "And yeah, _technically_  I have a son again, but... he's a synth.  He may not know it and may believe that I'm his mother, but that's because Father _programmed_  him that way.  It... it isn't _real."_

"I'm gonna stop you right there, boss," Deacon interrupted, holding up a hand.  "You may _think_  it's not real, but it _is._ Shaun may be a synth, but he can _think_.  He can make _decisions_.  He can _feel_.  And you'd better believe that he can _love._   Yes, he's programmed to believe he's your son, but there's no law that says a kid has to love their parent.  He doesn't love you because he's wired that way; he loves you because he _chooses_  to, because you've given him a reason.  Because... because you love him back."

She bit her lip again, trying to come up with a good argument against him, even though she knew he was right.  "You don't understand, Deacon."

He watched her with a weary expression on his face.  "But I do."

Something in his tone made her snap her head up, realization flooding her like a tsunami.  "Wait," she started, drawing out the word to give herself time to think.  "Are you saying..?"

Slowly, Deacon reached up and took off his sunglasses, heaving a heavy sigh as he did so.  His eyes were blue—something that the Professor had never known—and filled with unshed tears as he set the accessory aside and found her gaze.  "Yeah," he choked out, barely above a murmur.  "I am... Listen: I never told you everything... about my past.  I said that Barbara and I were _trying_ for kids... well, that's not the whole story."

The Professor sat in stunned silence, waiting for him to continue, despite that part of her wished that he wouldn't.

"About four months before... before Barbara was killed, we had a baby.  Her name was Dorothy... Dot.  Those four months?  Happiest I've ever been.  Dot had her mother's smile and... my eyes.  She was beautiful."

He was quiet for a moment, as if wanting the Professor to say something, but when she didn't, continued: "That's why I didn't know Barbara was a synth.  I didn't know they could have kids.  But when the Deathclaws found out, they... they killed her.  Dot too.  I wasn't home when it happened, but I caught wind that the 'Claws were in town from a trader.  By the time I got there, though, it was too late.  They..." He took a deep, wavering breath, "they lynched Barbara.  And Dot?  There was nothing left.  All I found were her bloody clothes."

The Professor couldn't think of anything to say; anything that she opened her mouth to tell just sounded _wrong._   Deacon watched her carefully, clearly waiting for a reaction—probably worrying that she didn't believe him—and she bit her lip.  "I... I'm sorry," she finally settled, knowing that it was a horrible attempt at offering comfort.  "I had no idea—"

"I know." He never looked away from her.  "I know, Prof."

There was silence for quite a while.  They sat in the small steeple, neither one of them really feeling the need to speak, some type of understanding flowing between them like two rivers meeting.  The Professor thought over what Deacon had said, about Father, about Shaun, about his family—and decided that she believed him... And that he was right.  She _had_  been acting different, hadn't been herself, and to the people that counted on her?  To the people that _cared_  about her?  That was something unacceptable.  

"You gotta come back, y'know," Deacon eventually murmured, putting out his cigarette.  "The Railroad needs you." He glanced away for a moment.  " _I_ need you."

At the revelation, the Professor slowly nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat, knowing— _knowing_ —that he meant it.  "Okay... Okay, Deacon."

He smiled—a big, genuine one, one that she'd never seen on his face before.  "Good."  

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic relies on my theory that Deacon lost a child when Barbara was killed. It's mainly speculation/headcanon.


End file.
